Nachtenspiel
by Ageless Drake
Summary: Written for the GWASDDI Agnst Fanfiction Contest: 2004! Generally angsty, a little odd, and a lot warped.


_**Summary: **All our times have come. Here but now they're gone._

**Warnings**: language, angst, violence, blood, character death, self-mutilation, shonen-ai

**Pairing**: 3x2, implied 3x4

**Nachtenspiel**

There was blood, somewhere. He thought he could smell it, but that was foolish, because the only way you could smell blood was if it were on the surface of something, and even then it wasn't really a smell. It left a foul taste in his mouth, that smell, made him want to spit, or vomit.

And there were bodies, but he couldn't see them. Maybe he could hear them. Running overhead. But that would have been odd, because the bodies held souls no longer, and to have them running would be against the laws of everything he'd ever learned in his life.

There was laughter. He could smell it, but that was impossible; you couldn't smell laughter any more then you could see dead bodies running about, because they simply did not do that.

He lifted his head slowly, looked at himself in the mirror, and spat out the foul taste in his mouth.

Maybe there was blood. He watched it swirl down the drain, caught in the flow of the water that drowned out his sobs. Ever circling, disappearing into the darkness of the pipes below.

His head jolted up at a knock on the door. He dabbed at his eyes, wiped away the tears, and opened the door just a fraction. Quatre's worried visage greeted him; Heero stood behind him, hands crossed over his chest.

"Is everything all right, Duo?" the blond teen asked very softly. At least, Duo thought it was soft. He could hear his blood thundering in his ears; or was that the color of Heero's eyes– foolish.

"I'm fine," the long haired brunette assured, and tried not to smile, because that hurt his face too much. His bruise colored eyes darted over to Heero, and then back down to his young friend; he reached a hand out through the crack in the door, and tousled his blond hair. "Just a few more minutes; I'll be out."

"If you're sure . . ."

Duo didn't hear the rest. He shut the door softly but pointedly in Quatre's face, and turned his back to it, letting it lull a little until it hit the cold wood; he slid down the facade, lifting his hands to rub at his face.

As such, he found himself looking down at angry red lines lacing over his wrists. They'd been from twist-ties, once. Now, they were from a razor blade, too long unsharpened and potentially deadly, not just for his porcelain skin, but for his very self.

There were sobs, he could feel them. Just as he could hear the door rattling with much harder knocks.

"Maxwell!" he heard WuFei snarl outside the bathroom. Duo sighed, and chose to ignore him, standing and walking back to the sink, where he hung his head again. WuFei pounded once more, and Duo growled.

"Leave me! The fuck! -Alone-, Chang!" he roared and contemplated opening the door to throw something at the Chinese pilot. The thought was sated as he heard quiet voices outside, and then heard somebody stomp angrily away.

There was a dark, screaming silence, before there was a very soft tap, and the doorknob slowly turned. Trowa stepped in, and shut the door, locking it.

"What happened?" he asked, his voice as soft as his knock. Duo smothered back the tears, crossed his arms over his chest, and leaned his hip against the sink, refusing to acknowledge the taller teen's question. He felt a gentle hand on his upper arm, and shook it off. "Duo–"

"I -don't- want to talk about it, Trowa," the braided brunette gritted, clenching his teeth despite the fact that it made his jaw ache, and that coppery, tanging smell return to his senses. He spat out a small mouthful of blood again, and barely caught Trowa's concerned glance. "What?"

"What's wrong?" The hand on his arm moved up to his shoulder, shaking him just a little. Duo thought he could smell jasmine, and felt a shock of jealousy; Quatre smelled of jasmine, not Trowa. Trowa smelled of sandalwood and vanilla, the cheap kind that accented cheap cologne.

"Let go of me," Duo demanded, shaking off the almost loving hand that had been lightly gripping his shoulder. He turned his side to Trowa, gripped the edge of the sink counter, felt the marble dig into his palm and the pads of his fingers; it was a good pain, like the razor blade.

"Duo, tell me what's wrong?" Duo refused to look up, and settled his legs out behind him a bit, so his head was hung over his sink, and his back was almost perfectly parallel to the floor. He tensed when he felt one long fingered hand dance along the patch of skin at the small of his back where his shirt didn't quite reach his waistband.

"Get -off- me!" Duo snapped, standing and hitting away Trowa's arm. The older youth looked confused, a little angry. "I don't want your help, god damnit, just leave me alone!" He made as if to slap Trowa's arm and shove him out.

The tall European grabbed his wrist, holding it in a sure grip, and dragged him closer; the American thrashed a little, hitting Trowa's chest, panting harshly as the tall young man wrapped his free arm around him tightly, holding him almost painfully close, their hands trapped between Duo's heaving chest and Trowa's own neat pectorals.

"Shh, shh. Hush, Duo," the tall brunette whispered, tucking Duo's head under his chin, resting his cheek atop his head as he stroked the slightly younger man's hair with delicate, revered fingers. "It's all right. I'm here."

"That's the problem," Duo hissed into Trowa's throat, his breath huffing out through his nose as he threatened to hyperventilate. Oh, yes, Trowa smelled– more like reeked– of jasmine, as though he'd been rolling in the stuff. It made Duo's stomach turn painfully, knot together, and threaten to loose all over the bathroom floor and Trowa's chest. "Let me -go-!"

"Not until you breathe and tell me what's wrong," the tall man murmured, letting go of Duo's wrist to wrap that arm around his waist, pulling him as close as he dared. The braided youth continued his angry breathing against Trowa's neck. "Duo, please . . . what's wrong?"

"Did you fuck him too?" Duo breathed, his eyes squeezing shut as he denied the sting of tears in his eyes. He felt Trowa tense, and looked up, his eyes glistening in the florescent bathroom lights. "You did, didn't you?"

"Who, Duo? I'd like to know who I'm being accused of cheating with." He tucked Duo's chin under his chin again, kissing the ruffled hair atop his head. Duo tried to tell himself he didn't want Trowa to do that, but felt himself melting into the embrace, warm and loving, anyway; it was . . . quite nice, actually.

"Quatre. You smell like him."

"What does Quatre smell like, Duo?"

"Jasmine," Duo whispered into Trowa's shirt, felt the tears roll down his cheeks to stain wet spots onto the dark blue cotton expanse. "And honey. But you only smell like Jasmine."

"Duo," Trowa murmured very faintly, lifting his chin. "I didn't sleep with Quatre." Their eyes met, and it was clear Duo didn't believe him. "Why don't you trust me?"

"Because you smell like him." The long haired pulled away, stumbling back until he hit the countertop; he turned, looking at the sink again. "Just go away."

"Duo--"

"GO AWAY!" Trowa flinched a little, looking down towards his feet. He rubbed the back of his neck, and slowly turned; he didn't want to upset the younger teen more then he already had-- it seemed wrong to distress him.

If he noticed the way Duo was rubbing his scratched wrist, he made no comment. Duo sighed very softly as the bathroom door shut, and turned his back to the sink and mirror, sliding down the front of the cabinets as he rubbed his face.

He could feel the tears, like heat on his face, and could see a sight he hated fused to the back of his eyelids, a sight that plagued him, more then the sound of the running bodies that couldn't be running because they were dead, more then the sight of the Maxwell Church, and the taste left on his tongue from the smell of burning flesh and hair and boiling blood.

But he couldn't really see it. He could hear it, something distant and paranoid that strove to drive him mad. His fingers found themselves trailing from his face to the counter, searching for the razor blade that would bring him salvation for a few short minutes as the other hand removed the elastic from around the end of his braid.

He contemplated both for a moment, before he stood, staring at the shower. He crawled in slowly, took a seat on the floor, and barely noticed that the elastic had dropped from between his thumb and forefinger.

The razor seemed awfully sharp as it bit into his pale skin. But it was a dim pain. He let his eyes drift closed. It was such a nice, distant pain . . . crisp and clean and clear, far away from jasmine and cheap cologne and curry and ash. Far away from sadness.

_-Fin-_

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End file.
